


Road

by Hekate1308



Series: The Crowley Chronicles [42]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 13, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 12:06:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19062346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/pseuds/Hekate1308
Summary: There are several things Dean could do when he gets the letter.Perhaps characteristically, he ends up doing none of those things. Crowley survival story.





	Road

**Author's Note:**

> I realized I haven't written all that many Crowley-is-back fics from Dean's POV, so... here we are. Enjoy!

There are several things Dean could do when he gets the letter.

Perhaps characteristically, he ends up doing none of those things.

It’s a normal Friday, really, they just came back from working a case and he decided to check out their P.O. box. One never knows.

One never knows, indeed. Here he is, sitting in the Impala, holding the letter in his hands.

He hasn’t opened it yet.

But he knows very well who it’s from.

He knows this handwriting. Granted, not as well as Sammy’s scrawl or Cas’ carefully printed look-I-can-write-in-human-language-too letters, but still.

They did spend a whole summer together, after all. While it wasn’t quite the Summer of Love Sam makes it out to be, it wasn’t _nothing_ , either.

And that’s just one of the reasons he doesn’t want to open the letter.

Because, god damnit – a part of him started to hope the second he laid eyes on it, and once he reads it, that hope will be over and done with. It’s just logical that Crowley would write one of those open-in-case-of-my-death documents that feature so heavily in soap operas, but as long as Dean doesn’t conform that’s what it is, there’s still a chance that he’s alive and kicking. As long as he doesn’t read the words _Now that I have left this mortal plain_ or whatever melodramatic proclamation Crowley came up with, he’s out there, fighting then good – well, bad – well, kind of bad – welly, maybe not that bad, but not too good either – fight.

He takes a deep breath. Crowley would be the first to tell him to just get it over with, so he rips the envelope open.

In his heart of hearts, despite this annoying hope that wouldn’t listen to reason, he didn’t believe.

And yet, here it is.

_Squirrel,  
just in case you might care, I am currently stationed in…_

He doesn’t get much farther than that, at least for the time being.

Crowley is alive.

Crowley is alive and apparently finally saw it fit to let them know, and Dean…

Well, there are many things he could do. The right thing to do would be to call Sam and Cas, give them the good (good? Yes, good) news and then decide hoe to handle this information. Or he could ignore the letter; after all, it’s Crowley. There’s a good chance that he needs something and that’s why he finally decided to reach out.

Really, the only sane thing to do is to call in reinforcements. Whether or not he was their ally in the end (and Dean only uses the word ally because – well, he can’t call him a friend, can he? All these years, so many people they have lost, and he still had no idea how to deal with Crowley’s demise, despite the fact that he spent a considerable part of their acquaintance convinced that he would be the one to gank him), this is still Crowley. And this means he’s dangerous.

Yes. He should call in reinforcements, investigate closely what’s going on, and then deal with whatever it is fate has thrown in their way now.

Naturally, he does nothing of the sort. Instead, he starts the car and then he’s driving towards whoever sent him the letter. He lets Sam and Cas know that he’s checking out a lead, no biggie, really, but doesn’t mention Crowley.

He can’t even say why he doesn’t. Just like he can’t say why he’s on the road to someone he considered an enemy for most of their – well –

All he knows is that he’s on his way, and that nothing is going to stop him. He just _has_ to make sure. And then – and then –

He doesn’t quite know what he’s going to do once he has done that. If it is Crowley, well… He doesn’t seem to be causing any harm, does he? He wrote him a letter, for God’s sake.

Just like him, too. He can’t just call or send an email; no, his Highness has to be as dramatic as possible, so old-fashioned letter writing it is.

If it is him. Dean tries his best to prepare himself for the possibility that it is not, but…

But.

He grits his teeth and concentrates on the road.

If the letter isn’t from Crowley, whoever did send it better have a goddamn explanation for when he does find them.

The next morning, he’s standing in front of a small house, his heart sinking. This doesn’t look like something Crowley would live in. Crowley would build himself another mansion and get a new tailor to replace his old one. And he’d have a big garden so his hell hounds could run around and play or do whatever those puppies of eternal damnation are supposed to be doping.

This? This looks practically _suburban_. Crowley wouldn’t be caught in a house like this.

His throat constricts, as it often does when he thinks of the King of Hell’s last stand. He did do the right thing in the end. He sacrificed himself for them.

And dean will be damned if he lest anyone impersonate him.

So he does his best to look as intimidating as possible as he knocks on the door.

The last thing he expects is excited barking. What the –

“Down, girl. Papa needs to open the door.”

This voice. _This voice_. Good God. No, it can’t be. Not here. Not in this –

And then Crowley opens the door and here they are. Dean Winchester and the former king of Hell. Staring at one another.

Eventually, he says, “Squirrel.”

It reminds him so much of his old greeting _Hello, boys_ that answering seems to much of an effort, at least for the moment. He just nods.

Crowley steps aside. “I can let Juliet out of the living room, then.”

“Juliet?” he asks, still at a loss for words, if he is being honest. Crowley is acting as if there is nothing extraordinary about him just living it up in suburbia – in his defence, with everything they have been through, there shouldn’t be anything extraordinary about it – but – but –

“Yes. She showed up a few weeks after I’d settled down here. She missed her Papa” Crowley – actually marvels? – and he looks different too, goo God, he is wearing jeans –

It clicks for Dean. “You’re human.”

Crowley frowns. “Yes. Like I wrote in my letter. I assumed you hadn’t forgotten how to read.”

Now, Dean could admit that he just read the first line and then hastened to get to the address Crowley gave him. He could. He just really doesn’t want to. So he says, “Yeah. Still, didn’t necessarily have to be true, did it.”

Crowley shrugs. “If you say so – there there – you remember Dean, don’t you –“

And then a hell hound is slobbering all over Dean’s shoes. “Hello” he says for a lack of anything else to greet – her with.

“Want a drink?”

That’s an understatement. Dean wants a liquor store, like Cas that one time. Instead of saying that, though, he just nods.

When they’re sitting down in the living room – Crowley has a living room with an actual fire place – the former demon leans back and asks, “So what do you need?”

“What?” is all the answer Dean can come up with.

Crowley sighs and rolls his eyes – at least something of that overdramatic son of a bitch is still in there. “As I stated in my letter _which you didn’t read_ , I have built up a business of helping out hunters, so when you showed up I assumed –“

Helping out – he’s working for hunters? Forget being on the same page, Dean’s pretty sure they’re not talking about the same freaking book. “I just – I got your letter, so I came.”

“Yes, so what do –“

“Crowley” he interrupts him, “I got your letter, so I came to see you.” It’s the closest he’ll get to making sense right now, and he hopes it conveys enough of what he did and why.

It seems so, because miracle of miracles, Crowley actually shuts up. No, that’s not true; he’s shocked into silence.

Dean can empathize. Here they are, trying to make sense of the fact that a Winchester cared enough about the ex-ruler of Hell to spend a day on the road, neither resting nor eating, just to check whether the letter he got from him was legit.

Juliet whines and Dean, despite his dislike for dogs and hell hounds in particular, reaches down and scratches her behind the ears. His own surprised face – did he seriously just do that? – prompts Crowley to laugh, and it’s both a reminder of the time they spent together as demons and human-sounding enough to convince Dean that yes, this is real. “Thought you didn’t like dogs.”

He shrugs. “Juliet’s okay, I guess.” One hell hound who doesn’t want to devour him, at least. That’s a plus.

“So since there seems to be no earth-threatening crisis for once… Are you going to stay for dinner?”

Dean thinks of his day on the road.

Then he nods.


End file.
